Sweet Temptation / A Private Affair. Lauren Hawkeye

to her chest to slow her suddenly thundering pulse, she focused on the peephole. Knowing he was looking back made her senses come alive, and it was hard not to fidget.

      The door opened, and then there he was, a lean hip propped against the doorway. Dressed in a simple black polo and jeans that probably cost more than her van, he still exuded power. Still, Meg’s mouth dried up at this glimpse into another side of him—she’d never seen him without the armor he wore at the office.

      “You’re staring.” His pale eyes, so light against the gorgeous brown of his skin, roamed over her, as well. She loved clothing, loved the way she could change how the world saw her with what she wore. As his stare lingered on the simple cotton candy–pink sundress she’d landed on, though, she had the uncomfortable realization that he might be one person whose view of her didn’t change with what she wore.

      That was nerve-racking as hell, so she held up the whiskey, using it as a distraction.

      “Will this buy me entry?” She lifted it higher so he could read the label. “Apparently it tastes like caramel and pears.”

      “No.” Still, he wrapped his fingers around the glass, tugging it and her forward into the room. With his other hand, he fingered the slim strap of her dress, his touch leaving heat in its wake. “But this sure as hell will.”

      “You like?” Part of her was thrilled that he’d taken a moment to comment on her choice of dress, to compliment it. Most of the men she’d dated wouldn’t have cared if she’d shown up at their door in a paper bag, so long as it made its way to their bedroom floor.

      Raising the bottle, both of their hands still wrapped around it, he coaxed her into a slow circle, and she felt the kiss of his gaze on every inch of her body.

      “I hate it,” he disagreed. She frowned, taken aback, then gasped when he pulled her against him abruptly. She collided with the solid wall of his chest.

      “This is a Rachel Roy,” she informed him. “I wore it because I wanted to look nice for you.”

      “I appreciate that you like fine things. It’s something we have in common,” he agreed, pulling her against him so abruptly that the bottle fell. It bounced on the thick carpeting, and Meg gasped as she felt one of his large hands splayed over her back. “But I’m far more interested in what’s underneath.”

      A soundless cry escaped her lips as his hand slid down, down to cup the curves of her ass. When he squeezed, her vision blurred.

      “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” It took far more concentration than it should have to spit out that one simple sentence. Wiggling in his grip, she strained to reach the zipper of her dress. She’d only worked it down an inch when his hand closed over hers.

      “You’re killing me,” he muttered. Squeezing the hand he held quickly, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then took a deliberate step back. After being pressed against the inferno that was his body, Meg felt chilled. She wanted the heat back.

      “Don’t pout.” He ran a finger along her jaw, and she couldn’t help but lean into the touch, a flower to the sun. “I’m going to treat you right.”

      Bemused, she wandered the suite as he uncovered dishes on the gorgeous glass dining room table in the suite. His hotel room was huge. She’d have bet money she didn’t have that the square footage was nearly equal to that of the entire house she shared with Mamesie and her sisters.

      She ran a hand over the silky bedspread. Yeah, the room was as big as her house, and nicer, too.

      “Nice digs.” Perching on the edge of the bed, she leaned back on her hands and watched as he organized the table. “Is your house this nice? Where do you live when you’re not traveling anyway?”

      “I don’t,” he replied simply, dusting his hands and turning to face her. “Have a house, that is. I’m always on contract, always traveling, so there isn’t a point.”

      Meg sat up straight, swallowing the words that wanted to slip off her tongue.

       That’s so lonely.

      And also yet another sign that whatever this thing was between them—it was temporary. It could never be anything else.

      “Shall we eat?” John crossed the plush carpet to her, and she pushed the maudlin thoughts from her mind as she placed her hand in his. She tried to sit in one of the two chairs. When he kept his grip on her, she looked up at him questioningly.

      “Not so fast.” Just a hint of that wicked grin of his played out over the corners of his lips, and her stomach did a slow roll. All he had to do was look at her, and she wanted him. Wanted him more than anyone she’d ever wanted before.

      “Don’t get between me and my food.” She heard the breathlessness in her own voice. “There’s a reason I’m a chef, you know. I like to eat.”

      “I won’t let you go hungry.” That grin again, and she knew he wasn’t talking about food at all. She swallowed hard and focused on the table as a distraction since he seemed intent on taking this thing slowly.

      “How come there’s only one place setting?” She arched an eyebrow at him, then squealed when he lifted her off her feet. Seating himself in one of the plush chairs, he settled her on his lap, a hard arm banded around her middle.

      “Relax,” he told her as she squirmed. She couldn’t help shifting, though, savoring the sensation of his hard thighs and the scratchy denim on her bare skin. And she certainly didn’t miss his reaction to having her on his lap.

      “How can I relax? Something’s poking me.” Craning her neck, she grinned at him over her shoulder, savoring a bolt of triumph when he laughed, a genuine sound of amusement.

      “Keep wiggling, and it’s just going to get...harder...to stay seated.” Pressing his lips to the base of her neck, he trailed them down her nape, making her shiver.

      “Since you seem to want to take this slowly, maybe I should get off your lap.” She didn’t want to, though. The hardness beneath her, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his arms around her—she liked it. Probably more than she should for something that was only—could only be—temporary.

      “Nope.” Still holding her tight, he pulled a plate toward them. Her chef’s eye appreciated the artistic presentation, even as she sniffed to discern the different ingredients.

      He lifted a small bite to her lips. Surprised, she turned her head as far as she could.

      “You want to feed me?” Gesturing to the huge array of full plates, she laughed. “That could take all night.”

      “I want to take care of you,” he corrected, pressing the bite to her lips. She hesitated, then opened, groaning at the tastes that spread out over her tongue like the heat spreading through her belly.

      She was a strong woman. She identified goals and charged after them. She spoke her mind.

      But here she was with someone willing to give her exactly what she wanted, what she craved. Even if it was only for a week, how the hell could she say no?

      “Far be it from me to argue.” She chewed and swallowed. “I’d never pay for food like this on my own, but I’m not dainty enough to turn my nose up at it.”

      “I don’t want someone dainty.” His words held a thread of impatience as he selected another bite and held it to her lips. “I want someone who will let me spoil them. Now, eat that and tell me what you taste.”

      Meg chewed again, letting the flavors roll over her tongue. “It’s a scallop. There’s definitely ginger in there. And I think that umami flavor comes from seaweed, but there’s another layer I can’t put my finger on.”

      “Sherry, according to the menu.” He took one for himself this time. “Where did you learn to cook?”

      “The catering company.” She allowed him to feed her another bite, this time